


What Cannot Be Concealed

by Aviss



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/pseuds/Aviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames has a hidden ace up his sleeve and Arthur is not quite the person he thinks.</p><p>Eames didn't have a totem. Or it would be better to say he didn't have just one totem.</p><p>He had four.</p><p>And one of them was so much more than just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Cannot Be Concealed

**What Cannot Be Concealed**

_It is wise to disclose what cannot be concealed.

\- Johann Friedrich Von Schiller

_

  
The thing with totems, Eames knew, was that people working in dream sharing idealized them. Idealized and severely underestimated them.

They were useful little tools for telling the dream apart from reality, he wasn't going to deny it any time soon, but they were fallible and easy to forge. And, for the right person, they could be so much more.

Anyone in the team could fuck Cobb right over and he'd never be the wiser. It would serve him right, anyway, for announcing to all and sundry that his bloody totem would wobble and fall in reality but never in the dream. Dom was damned lucky all of them cared for him enough to want to keep his mind in one piece.

Arthur and Ariadne were at least a bit smarter, they had totems people knew about, but they kept the details to themselves. It didn't mean a hundred percent certainty that nobody had touched them, especially with a nimble fingered thief around, but it was a start. And Eames wasn't so crass as to steal a teammate's totem just to screw with their minds.

Yusuf and Saito didn't have a totem, at least one Eames knew about. Most likely, they didn't need one. They weren't under enough for the line between dream and reality to blur.

As for Eames--he didn't have a totem. Or it would be better to say he didn't have _just one totem._

He had four.

And one of them was so much more than just that.

…

Eames was a man of many faces, in and out of the dream world. He played to people's preconceptions of him and showed what he wanted people to see.

There were some, like Arthur and Dom and Mal, who were able to read him and see past his bullshit. Most of the time. It usually came from the fact that Eames didn't bother putting up masks in front of them, at least not very complicated ones.

Still, they saw what they wanted to see in Eames.

Eames was a thief and a liar, and a bit of a gambler. It stood to reason that his totem was a poker chip. _And it was_. Not a modified or even a special poker chip, because anyone knowing he had a poker chip for a totem would assume he had marked it, made it different somehow. Which was the reason he had a very common, plain poker chip always in his pocket.

If anyone wanted to use it to trick him into believing a dream was real, the last thing they would expect was for something so _plain and common_ to be his totem.

Of course, there was also the fact that Eames was a smoker, a breed which was getting rarer by the day all over the globe. He loved his cancer sticks, and sucked on them as if his life depended on it.

And cigarettes meant lighters. One in particular, with an engraved letter on the side and a habit of not lighting up until the third try. It did work, eventually, both in reality and in dreams. But one needed to be in contact with Eames to know the trick.

What never worked, at least in reality, was the pocket watch. But very few people knew about it, and even less about the markings subtly engraved on the inside of the lid.

If it came to that one, Eames would have a very short list of suspects for trying to screw with his mind.

It wasn't that he was paranoid, or at least more paranoid than the rest of the people in the business. It was just that he knew how tenuous his grip in reality could become, and for someone who changed skins like the rest of them changed shirts, Eames needed an extra edge to keep him grounded.

That was the reason for the locket.

The one thing nobody knew about.

…

The dream world played by its own set of rules, and that was something Eames had always used to his benefit. He was a forger; he knew what those rules were and how to bend them to suit him. He could change his skin at a seconds' notice, and if pressed he was able to extract like the best of them.

He didn't, not because it was hard, but because it was too easy.

There were only two things in dream work he really liked: forging, because it was what he was best at and what played to his strengths while still being challenging, and running point, because it was bloody impossible for him to keep his attention in so many little details and not die of boredom. Eames understood it was a skill he'd never possess, and deeply admired competent point men. Not that he was going to tell this to Arthur any time soon.

But extracting--it was way too easy if you knew the rules of the dream world. Build a safe and the mark would fill it with secrets, that was all the extractors cared about.

There were other kind of secrets easily accessible for a sharp mind, and Eames took full advantage of it.

…

The first time Eames realized that safes weren't the only things you could extract secrets from they were inside Dom's mind.

It had been during an easy job in the states, before Mal had gone off the deep end and Dom's mind turned into a prison for murdering shades. It was their fourth job together, and they had come to the point where training for the levels and the forges was more like routine than a real necessity. They knew their styles, and trusted the rest of the members of the team enough that totems were completely unnecessary.

Still, Eames checked his locket out of habit the moment he was away from everyone else. It was a silly little trinket his grandmother had lying around in the house and Eames had stolen when he was but a boy. There was no picture of any kind inside, just a small mirror his Nan had jokingly said it would show him the most important person in the world. He got the joke, even as a boy, and once he started dream sharing, he always checked it when he was alone.

In the dreams it would be empty, or showing a random stranger's face.

Only this time it was Mal's face he saw, a radiant smile on her face and a look of adoration in her beautiful eyes as she gazed at a tiny bundle in her arms. Eames did a double take, and remembered his Nan's words. _The most important person in the world._

It stood to reason that if a mark filled a safe with their secrets, they would also fill a tiny thing like a locket with a part of themselves.

He checked it a couple of times more during the dream, the picture never changing in the few hours they spent with Eames trying on different skins and Dom building impossible skyscrapers and mazes.

Eames wondered what it meant right until the moment they woke up, Mal smiling softly at Dom while she removed the IV line from his wrist, the happiness and radiance on her face all the confirmation Eames needed.

"Congratulations," he said softly, clasping Dom on the shoulder on his way out and he had to hide the smile on his face as he heard Mal's voice whispering to her husband.

"Did you tell him?"

…

It was nice, though not terribly exciting, to have confirmation of Dom and Mal's love for one another through the years, their faces always showing on Eames' locket when they were under together.

He was shocked, though, the first time Mal's face stared at him from the locket while they weren't in Dom's subconscious. It threw him for a moment, wondering if his assumption of the meaning of the picture in the locket was wrong. Then he realized exactly whose subconscious they were in and cursed under his breath.

Arthur's.

Eames had been working with Arthur for as long as he had been working with the Cobbs, indeed it was difficult to work with one of them without getting the other two. As it was, they were almost like a package deal. They were the best, so nobody complained about it.

Eames wasn't going to complain either, he quite liked Arthur. Had liked him since the first time they met. Arthur was smart and sharp as they came, a more than competent point man with an astounding attention for details. He was also ruthless and determined, and his undoubtedly military training made him the kind of person you wanted to have at your back. All of that made it worth to work with him, but what Eames actually liked about Arthur were the moments they spent out of the job.

Arthur was quite likeable when he wasn't stressed about work, had a caustic sense of humour and a sharp tongue he didn't mind inflicting on people. And he was bloody gorgeous. Those indecently expensive suits he liked to wear fitted him like a glove, revealing enough about the lithe body underneath to make Eames want to strip him off them. He responded to Eames flirting and teasing with glares and barbs on the job, and with jokes and his own brand of flirting when out of it.

They made a good team together, and Eames had hoped to worm his way past Arthur's formidable defences sooner rather than later and get him to his bed.

Then he saw Mal's face on his locket and realized it was a lost cause.

Mal looked younger than the one Eames knew, smiling happily and with her hair tied on a ponytail. There was a slight imperfection on her tiny smile, something Eames thought might be brakes, and she had a far away look in her eyes. But it was Mal, and she was Arthur's most important person.

Still, Eames was nothing if not stubborn, and liked the relationship they had enough to carry on as if he didn't know.

He hated Mal for a whole five seconds after that, but he was also a bit in love with her.

Everyone was.

He made a point of not checking the locket when he was under with Arthur, though.

…

Losing Mal was a blow for all of them, not only Dom.

Their easy partnership came to a screeching halt when she lost herself, Dom not taking any jobs until she got better and Arthur sticking to them, working only locally in case he was needed.

Eames would have done the same, only it hurt too much seeing Mal becoming a shadow of what she had been, seeing the worry lines appearing in Dom's face, the downturn of Arthur's mouth and the way he ran himself ragged trying to help.

So Eames left, because he couldn't stay and _watch_. And Arthur didn't call him back.

Not until it was too late.

…

The funeral was on a Sunday and there was a big, empty space where Dom was supposed to be, Arthur trying to fill it with his slighter build and sombre face.

Afterwards Eames took him to a bar and got him phenomenally drunk because he didn't know what else to do. He hated seeing Arthur looking so broken and lost, almost as if he had been the one Mal's death had wrecked the most. Arthur was hollow eyed and pale, his voice wavering lightly when he talked about Mal and Dom.

It was impossible to ignore the hurt on his face, and Eames found himself comforting him as best he could, voice slurred and trying to move past his own grief.

"You loved her," Eames said, both of them ensconced in a corner booth in the bar, their second bottle of scotch just opened on the table.

Arthur looked at him, unfocused. "Everyone loved her."

Eames shook his head sadly. "That we did. But you _loved_ her." He tried to give his words the right cadence for the point to get across without having to spell it, but wasn't sure he was managing past the haze of alcohol.

Arthur blinked, staring at Eames confused for a second, and then the penny dropped for him. "I loved Mal," he said, nodding and shaking his head at the same time, looking almost as if he was having a seizure. "Of course I loved her." And Eames realized maybe this hadn't been his most intelligent move, not when listening to Arthur admitting how much he had loved someone else was making him feel like grabbing the bottle and chugging everything in it in one go. "She was my best friend. How can you not love the girl who kisses your forehead and tells you she'll go to the ball with you in front of the guy who just broke your heart to get to her? How can you not love the woman who introduces you to her boyfriend with a smirk saying _this one's mine, we'll ask if he has a brother for you_? She never judged me or expected me to be something else than myself, and she got me out of every mess I made in my life. I loved her, the same you did, same as everyone who met her did." Arthur continued, completely uncaring of Eames stunned expression at his words. "I loved her more and for longer, because I was lucky to meet her sooner. But I wasn't _in love_ with her, she was the wrong gender for that."

And there was nothing Eames could say to that, so he just topped up their glasses and made a silent toast to Mal.

When the second bottle was finished Eames helped Arthur stand up and dragged him to his hotel room, both of them falling on the bed almost unconscious.

At some point in the night they woke up in a tangle of limbs, the heat of the room stifling and the smell of alcohol clinging to their suits. They stripped in silence, eyes bleary and feverish and still drunk, and fell on the bed again, this time kissing messily and rubbing against each other. There were no words exchanged between them, only sighs and moans and whiskey flavoured kisses as they pressed against each other and tried to crawl inside the other's skin.

They went back to sleep just like that, and in the morning Eames was unable to remember if they even got to come, only that he woke up with the taste of Arthur and desperation in his mouth and a cold space where Arthur's body had been.

There was a note from Arthur on the bedside table, no apologies and no explanations, just a short _Thank you._

Eames read the note and closed his eyes again, going back to sleep.

…

It wasn't that Eames had expected to hear from him after that day, but he was disappointed when he didn't.

He heard about Arthur and Cobb, the dream sharing world wasn't big enough for rumours of them not to reach Eames, and he was equally certain that Arthur could find him without much effort, should he chose to do so.

He didn't, and when he was finally sought to join them again, it was Dom the one who found him. Eames tried not to be hurt by this.

Eames didn't know what to think of that, so it was a relief to see how easily they fell into the old pattern of teasing and flirting and taunting each other, nothing awkward or strained in their relationship. That night they spent together wasn't mentioned, but Eames hadn't expected it to. They had both been drunk and grief stricken, a few fumbling, half-remembered kisses meant nothing.

Or so Eames believed up to the point he went under with Arthur.

"Go explore the maze, love," Eames said, standing in front of the mirror and changing shapes so fast it was leaving him dizzy. He still needed to find a good forge based on Fisher's taste, something classy but with a little bit of slut built in her. "I still have a bit of work over here."

Arthur nodded curtly and left to wander around the corridors of the hotel. He was the dreamer, and was going to be the one in charge of staying there while the rest of the team went a level deeper, so he needed to know every inch of the layout by heart. It was probably pointless at that stage, Arthur had gone under with Ariadne so many times he probably had the printout of the hotel seared to the back of his lids.

Still, he had been the one to suggest going down with Eames this time so he probably wanted to double or triple check some triviality. That was who Arthur was, Eames thought fondly studying his forge in the mirror, a perfectionist to the point of being anal.

He had been shifting between favourites, staring at the naked shape of their bodies before creating some clothes for them, when his eyes rested on the chain around his own neck and the locket hanging from it. It had been years since the last time he had checked it inside a dream with Arthur, and some morbid curiosity made him wonder if it would still be Mal's face in it or if it would be Dom's now.

It wouldn't be surprising if it were.

What he wasn't expecting was seeing his own face staring back at him.

Eames reverted back to his normal shape, snapping the locket shut and hiding it beneath his clothes, and took a deep breath. He checked his other three totems, and yeah, he was in a dream, and not one of his own. He had known he was dreaming all along, that had been the whole point of the exercise.

He took the locket out and opened it again, and sure enough, there is was his own face, exactly as he saw it ever day in front of the mirror.

Eames hurriedly hid the locket when the sound of footsteps in the corridor told him Arthur was approaching, trying to calm his pounding heart and making a point of not grabbing Arthur right then and there and ravishing him.

That was something he'd enjoy much better in reality.

…

This was the worst time ever for being distracted by thoughts of Arthur.

Eames was well aware of that, he needed to keep all his wits about him and focus on the damned job. Inception was hard enough without his mind running away from him every couple of minutes, supplying him with memories of how pliant Arthur's lips had been under his and how lovely his body was under the suits.

He had been sorely tempted to take Arthur aside the minute they woke up from that trial run, get him to some room and demand an explanation. Or just skip the explaining and get to finally, _finally_ fuck Arthur like he had wanted to since they got to know each other.

But it wasn't the right time for that; their nerves were taut enough, close to snapping point already with all the pressure of the job and all the craziness from Dom. One distraction in this could be one too many.

And yet, he was unable to keep his eyes from following Arthur's every move, to keep from noticing all the little details he had always taken in as part of who Arthur was. The way he took his coffee in the morning, black and measuring the sugar almost grain by grain before adding it, wincing at the taste if he put too much in. The way he would smoother the wrinkles out of his suit methodically right after waking up, his hand pressing a bit harder than necessary over the pocket where he kept his totem, checking it. The way he would look at Eames with a challenge clearly written on his face when he said something Eames was likely to argue.

He noticed that when he stared at Arthur, their eyes would meet more often than not. And Arthur would never avert his eyes, like he had every right in the world to be looking at him.

And that was what finally pushed Eames over the edge.

He had intended to wait until the job was finished, follow Arthur to his hotel room in L.A. and confront him there. Only Arthur made it impossible for him to.

They were the last ones to leave for once, Yusuf already satisfied with the compound and Ariadne with the mazes. Even Cobb had said everything was perfect, built and checked and rechecked within an inch of its life. It was only Arthur who stayed late nowadays, going down on his own to check whatever it was he checked down there for the umpteenth time.

Eames hadn't intended to stay and watch him, he really hadn't, but by the time he thought to leave there wasn't anyone else around. And he just didn't feel comfortable with a colleague under without supervision. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that he could watch Arthur as much as he liked this way, could enjoy how young he looked when he was sleeping and his face was relaxed.

Then Arthur opened his eyes, slowly focusing on his surroundings and checking his totem like he always did. His looked at Eames, his lips curling into a smile, and that was it.

Eames had crossed the space between them by the time Arthur had removed the IV from his wrist, still sitting on the lounge chair. Eames put his hand on Arthur's shoulder and pushed him back, forcing him to lie again as he climbed on top of his body.

"Eames, what the fuck are you--"

He didn't let him finish the sentence, his mouth descending over Arthur's and claiming it immediately. He didn't know if he was expecting Arthur to struggle or reject him, but Arthur's lips opened under his, his mouth warm and soft and nothing and everything like he remembered from that one time, his arms coming up to encircle Eames' shoulders and press him against his body.

The lounge chair wasn't the most comfortable place for this, Eames knew, nor it was this the way he had envisioned getting Arthur, but he wasn't going to complain, and he definitely wasn't going to stop now. He kissed Arthur deeply, devouringly, his tongue tracing every single inch of his mouth, his hands busy undoing the tie and the myriad of buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, eager to get to the skin underneath. Arthur laughed softly when Eames pulled away with a curse, his hands clumsy on the tiny buttons and not working fast enough for his liking. He frowned when Arthur batted his hands away, and could have kissed him when he started undoing his clothes himself.

With that thought, Eames did exactly that, sweeping down and devouring his mouth anxiously, his fingers caressing the long neck and slipping beneath the opened shirt, exploring the soft skin exposed to him. It was hurried and fumbling and deliciously hot from there, their kisses getting sloppier and more desperate as more and more skin got revealed, their hands trying to touch everything at once. Eames shoved his trousers and underwear down his thighs and settled between Arthur's parted ones, rubbing their cocks together and moaning inside Arthur's mouth. And it wasn't anything like he had imagined, and it was everything he had always wanted with Arthur gasping and clinging to him and his skin hot and soft and _there_.

They came like that, rutting on the most uncomfortable lounge chair on earth, with their mouths joined as if glued together. And it was quick and awkward and the best fucking thing Eames could remember.

Still, he promised himself to take Arthur to his hotel room and properly fuck him into the mattress. Or let Arthur fuck him, he wasn't picky.

"That, Mr. Eames, was too hurried a conclusion for all these years of wait," Arthur said when they finally got their breathing back to normal, disentangling from each other's body and rearranging their clothes as best they could.

"I can do much better than that, darling," Eames replied, feeling slightly offended until the words properly registered in his brain.

"I certainly hope so." Arthur stood up, patting his suit and making a face at the state of it, his hand lingering over the pocket longer than it used to. Eames couldn't help the smile on his face when he realized Arthur was checking his totem, again. He turned to look at Eames, his look challenging. "Are you coming, or will I have to wait another year for a repeat?"

Eames bristled at that. "You could have said something, darling. How was I supposed to know?"

"You're the expert at reading people, Eames." And that he was, only he had never been able to decide if what he was reading in Arthur's manners and interactions with him was just what he wanted to see or the truth. Not when he had been unable to confirm the way he was used to. "I was beginning to think you either weren't interested or I was being too subtle. I left enough clues that even you should have been able to figure it out."

Eames chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, I was looking." His hand moved reflexively to his chest, brushing the locket lightly over his clothes. "I just didn't see them."

Arthur's eyes followed his gesture, one eyebrow arching up at it, making Eames wonder just how much he knew about him. "That was because you weren't looking in the right place," Arthur said when he reached the door, looking over his shoulder at Eames with a smirk. "It was never a secret."

…

The thing with totems, Eames knew, was that people working in dream sharing idealized them. Idealized and relied on them too much.

They were useful little tools for telling the dream apart from reality, and that was all they should be.

The rest of the things, he should be able to tell by himself.

…


End file.
